Order in Disorder: Reborn
by Alias-Maxima
Summary: Scientist. Murderer. Savior. Traitor. Follow the rise and fall of Jebidiah Christoff as he struggles to discover his reality. This is a re-write of my other story, Order in Disorder. It will feature both old and new characters. Therefore, the plot will be different, but not by a long stretch. Those who have read the original, no spoilers, please!


I

* * *

Like all things, drowning begins with an epiphany. In this case, our epiphany is, unfortunately, rather unpleasant.

Everything is dark- everything, save for a point of light above us, a million miles away. Get to that light, or we are going to die.

At that very moment, something primal kicks in- something we cannot control. Our legs will extend like pistons and our arms will flail like propellers. For a brief moment, we will swim better than we have ever swum before. But the light grows no closer.

Realizing the futility of its actions, our body relinquishes control of our mind. Once again, we find our thoughts adrift: they are a hazy whirl of panic and confusion, desperation and regret.

Do you only miss things when they are gone? We will have no choice now. The pain in our lungs crescendoes: they burn as our body consumes what we need most.

What I would give for one breath of air, a single, blissful mouthful of oxygen!

Perhaps you see your life flash before your eyes. Every shortcoming and triumph is laid out before us. But we are not alone. Someone else is watching, judging: Are we going to Hell?

We cough. Bubbles erupt from our open mouth. We watch them, for they represent our last attempt at holding on; they drift upwards, undulating towards the dimming light.

There is neither pain, nor hope for survival. The water all around us is soothing and cool, and the ruby-colored darkness is peaceful. Nobody is going to come for us. Just as well. They are unwelcome in this sacred place.

A second of infinity elapses.

We did not quite surrender. Rather, we became one with something greater.

At that very moment, when we sacrifice what we treasure the most, we are reborn.

* * *

The first thing he felt was the fire.

It split his body in two- a white-hot lance, shooting from the soles of his feet, through his spine, slamming into the base of his skull. There, it lingered, a throbbing, persistent nuisance.

It was enough of a nuisance to awaken an impulse inside that dormant mind: something animalistic, something crucial, something... beautiful.

 _Breathe._

He felt was the air rushing into his lungs, inundating his body with oxygen. Glorious, life-giving oxygen! He gulped it down greedily, his body gratefully convulsing in agonizing joy. He wheezed and wheezed until he could wheeze no more.

His eyelids ventured to open themselves. They tenuously flickered open, but the pain resurfaced tenfold as the glaring light stabbed at his retinas. He screamed, but the air was lodged in his throat; it came out as a pathetic whimper.

His lungs still burned and his hands still wrung the air, clutching at nothing. He heard nothing but the drumbeats of his heart and the rhythmic chant of his ragged breaths.

There, he lay, reaching for the strings of life, until his body finally relinquished control to his brain. Yet, the more he tried to think, the more it hurt; so he laid, stared at his eyelids, and thought about nothing in particular.

Boredom soon took hold. He uncurled from his fetal posture. He clenched and unclenched his fists, surprised by the strength in his fingers. He attempted to open his eyes once again. The light, while still blinding, was now within tolerable limits. Squinting, he examined his surroundings.

He brushed the coarse blanket with his fingers. Though spartan, the cot he rested on felt comfortable enough. The pants he wore felt heavy and thick, yet baggy and unrestrictive. Once his eyes adjusted, he identified the source of light: radiant sun, filtering through the half-closed shades on the single window.

Everything was wrong. Yet, nothing felt wrong.

"Hrn…" He groaned, sitting. Even his voice sounded foreign: a rumbling, hoarse bass. What the hell had happened?

 _Jebidiah_.

"Jebidiah Christoff," He repeated, as if by instinct.

"It's Jebidiah Christoff."

Jebidiah scooted his legs over the side of his cot. His feet made contact with the frigid concrete floor. The cold permeated through his flesh, reaching into his bones.

"Forty years of- nngh."

He stumbled, just managing to brace himself against the wall before he fell.

"...age. PhD of... Abstract Probability."

He rested his forehead against the wall. He had forgotten the meaning of "Abstract Probability" long ago. But he had definitely said them before. It was almost as if...

"Where is the mirror," he croaked, to no one in particular. "I must see a mirror."

He frantically scanned the room, until... There! It laid atop a desk, face down, discarded.

Shambling towards the wooden frame, Jebidiah hurriedly seized it and stared at his reflection.

A greying hairline fled from the exhausted eyes of the living corpse in the mirror. Long, errant strings cascaded from his scalp, doing little to cover his hollow cheeks. Wrinkles creased his haggard face and encroached at the corners of his grim, unshaven frown.

His pupils were the color of cremated bodies. He might have been handsome, once upon a time.

He extended a trembling finger towards the polished surface, pressing his palm against the glass. The man on the other side dutifully mimicked his movements.

Even though the movement was small, his body still rippled with power. His pectorals pressed against his shirt, as if they wished to burst out of their feeble fabric straitjackets. His wide, well-defined shoulders seemed to explode from his torso; they sloped upwards, culminating in a bullish, thick neck.

His skin was wrinkled and blemished with scars and starting to sag. Yet, he looked about as frail as a main battle tank.

Jebidiah yelped in surprise as cracks spread from his fingertips. He hastily drew his fingers back, ruefully glaring at his destructive hand, then at the ruined mirror- and the strange man imprisoned inside it, the strange man who he knew was himself.

Absentmindedly, Jebidiah rubbed at the curling clumps of hair growing across his jawline. His muddled memories suggested an epiphany, and his mind greedily seized the morsel of inspiration.

Jebidiah tore his eyes from his reflection and eyed the doorway.

* * *

"Restroom," Jebidiah muttered, bumping the door askew. "Restroom, restroom… should be at the end of the hallway."

The "hallway" was littered with empty bottles, coated with grime and refuse. Jebidiah cautiously planned each footfall, hoping to avoid stepping on the detritus- which, he quickly realized, was an impossible task. Two steps in, he encountered his first failure: he had stepped on a cellophane wrapper.

 _Crunch._

"Rrgh," he growled. "Clumsy."

 _Crunch. Crunch._

"Gah… Damnit!"

Frustration took root, accompanied by a fresh wave of pain in his head. Jebidiah held his temples and shut his eyes, waiting for the ache to subside.

The restroom door seemed no closer. The pain in his skull seemed no less splitting.

Gritting his teeth, Jebidiah plowed through the rest of the hallway, scattering the glass particles and occasional beer can in his path.

 _Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!_

He smiled wanly, filled with the same destructive, naive joy a child experiences romping through a pile of autumn leaves. The crisp sounds of trash crushed underfoot was satisfying and wholesome.

Jebidiah strolled into the restroom chuckling, his cut and bleeding soles leaving red footprints on the tile.

The razor rested, blade down, in the glass cup sitting atop the stained ceramic sink. The medicine cabinet was slightly ajar; two white capsules cowered inside the transparent, amber-tinted container.

Jebidiah pressed the cabinet door closed, gently, for fear of breaking it. He twisted each faucet handle: Right was Hot. Left was Cold. He dashed some lukewarm fluid across his cheeks, letting the headache dribble across his face and drain into the sink. Glancing untrustingly at the blotchy towel on the wall, Jebidiah decided to dry his face with the hem of his shirt.

Jebidiah beheld the razor between two fingers, angling the tiny edge, and the metal glimmered in the fluorescent light. It was certainly sharper than the shattered glass bottles in the hallway.

He set the razor against his neck. He froze as the blade pressed against his skin.

He remembered the mirror. He remembered how the slightest amount of pressure from his hand had destroyed the delicate surface. That same hand now held a knife, which was pressed against yet another delicate surface. How could he possibly control himself with enough precision to shave? Clouded as his thoughts were, Jebidiah knew that a cut across his throat would result in death.

As he stared in the bathroom mirror, Jebidiah reaffirmed his need to shave. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, his skin, weathered and tanned. He looked as if he had endured Hell twice! The hairs on his face were uncouth and ungroomed.

The spark of motivation dimmed, yet still glowed. "I will find a way!" Jebidah swore, staring at the razor clutched in his fist.

 _Thok! Thok!_

Jebidiah froze once again. Where was the sound coming from? The sound paused for an impatient second.

 _Thok! Thok! Thok!_

Razor in hand, he crunched his way back through the hallway.

 _ThokThokThok!_

There was the sound once again, rushed and urgent. The door at the end of the hallway shivered with each impact.

 _ThokThok-_

"Who is there?" Jebidiah demanded.

"It's Alva! Open up!"

Jebidiah frowned. Alva? He struggled to recognize the foreign name. His fingers took a life of their own, absentmindedly twirling the razor.

"Open up, _please_ ," Alva added, reluctantly.

"I recall no Alva," Jebidiah concluded.

"Mebbe it's just the headache actin' on ya. Sorta like how I can't think straight without… anyway, that ain't relevant. Ya gotta just trust me an' open the door! This place ain't safe anymore."

"This place is not safe?"

"The Big A is comin', and they sure as hell won't knock."

The scalpel stopped twisting in Jebidiah's hands. The tip of the blade shivered as he strangled the handle.

With methodical determination, he reached the door with his free hand. One by one, he undid the deadbolts.

 _Click-clack. Click-clack._

The man who called himself Alva stood squat and portly, his glasses askew and cheeks flustered. Jebidiah stood two heads taller than him. Though his face looked young, his receding jet-black hair was shot with streaks of grey. Glazed, hazel pupils sat atop the exhausted bags padding his cheekbones. He wore a lab coat which looked as if it hadn't been washed for months. Most of the stains on the white cloth were brown and clotting.

Alva adjusted his glasses and grinned amicably.

"Handsome aren't I? Lissen, we gotta go-"

"What are you doing here?"

Alva tapped his chin.

"Among other things, I'm savin' your life. Pay me back later."

"You said there is danger?"

"Yup, an' you'll be in it if we just keep jerkin' each other off here. Big A waits for nothin', so let's haul ass. This way."

The Big A were bad. The Big A were the ones who had tried to drown him. Jebidiah could remember that much. And Alva's eyes, tired as they were, seemed earnest.

Through the musty corridor they went. Alva hummed to himself as he strutted onwards, slightly limping. Though Jebidiah initially had difficulty keeping up, he soon found himself deliberately slowing his pace to keep himself from running over his guide. Walking quickly became effortless, almost natural.

Alva pulled aside the grate in front of the elevator.

"Get in, Jeb."

Jebidiah ducked his head under the elevator's doorway. Alva followed close behind and depressed a button. The mechanism awoke, and Jebidiah stiffened in surprise as the elevator began its clanking and growling descent.

The mechanical cacophony began to sound like the crashing of a waterfall, the mumbling of bubbles billowing in water, the muted screams of a submerged man...

Time seemed to crawl, slowly, ever slower. Jebidiah realized he was shivering. How could this Alva person remain so calm?

"This… seems unsafe."

Alva chuckled. "Yeah, just a lil' bit. Don't worry 'bout it. Nothing's totally safe in Nevada. Best you c'n hope for is ta die quick, ya know?"

He tried closing his eyes, but the darkness of his eyelids reminded him of immersion, of lightless water, soothing yet deadly. He forced his eyes open and looked upwards, through the iron-barred roof of the elevator, at the taut steel cable which seemed to extend upwards into the inscrutable infinity.

"Faster than drowning?" Jebidiah asked, trying to conceal his trepidation.

"If that cable snaps? Oh yeah. Much faster."

* * *

A small speaker emitted a bright "ding!" The elevator door scrolled open.

"Hey, lookit that. We survived!"

Jebidiah wiped at the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Yes. Yes, we did."

Alva reached upwards and clasped a hand on Jebidiah's shoulder.

"Look, JC. Hey, I like the ring of that. Jay-See. Can I call ya JC, from now on? Thanks. Look, JC. We're kinda in a hurry, but if anythin' bothers ya, just ask, yeah?"

Jebidiah tried to make a friendly grin. It looked more like a grimace.

"Yeah."

Alva beamed.

"Awesome. Can ya run?"

Jebidiah jogged alongside Alva as they wound their way through the concrete labyrinth: left, right, right, left, down a flight of stairs. It was quiet, aside from the ghostly echoes of shoes on concrete- Alva had stopped humming long ago. As he walked, Jebidiah realized, to his surprise, that his razor's handle was slightly deformed. Had he gripped it too hard in the elevator?

Alva abruptly stopped at the threshold and rummaged through his pockets.

"Almost forgot. Put these on. We can't have people knowin' who ya are, they might tip off the Big A. Also, it's pretty bright outside."

Jebidiah wore the proffered sunglasses. The large square shades sat heavy and awkward on the bridge of his nose. The tinted lenses colored the world a soothing, dark hue.

"Where are we going?"

"We're gonna head to our safe house, but we'll have ta go outside a bit ta get there. Might be an eensy bit risky, but I see you're armed."

Alva nodded towards the razor blade.

"This? This is hardly a weapon."

Alva grinned widely. "Ha! I'm sure you'll have no problems wedging that thing real far up someone's ass, if you gotta. Do some real damage. But, as much as I'd like ta see that, we should prob'ly lay low an' avoid trouble, yeah? Let's get movin', Big A's gonna be here any sec. Ya ready?"

Jebidiah bit back his numerous questions. He needed to get as far away from this Big A as possible.

"You are right. Open the door, Alva. We have to leave this place, as soon as possible, as fast as possible."

Alva started for the door handle, but stopped himself halfway.

"Real talk, now, can ya like, I dunno, speak with contractions or somethin'? Might help ya not instantly get ID'd."

Jebidiah furrowed his brow.

"Contractions? What are contractions? And what do you mean by ID?"

"ID means identified. An' contractions, they're like, combining two words into… ferget it, just don't talk while we're outside, 'kay? Should be thirty minutes, if we fast walk."

"This is all very confusing."

"I'm sure it is, but I'll 'splain everythin' once we get outta here. Okay?"

He reached out, catching Alva's wrist, and put extra effort into making his grip as gentle as possible. He was hearing sounds: sounds which he could identify, sounds which he could give names to.

"Ow! Dude, what's the fuck's the matter now?"

They had very strange names.

 _P30L, Glock 17..._

"Sorry, Alva. A vehicle has just stopped outside. I hear footsteps. Whoever they are, I think they are armed."

Alva sighed.

"Oh boy. We're fucked."

* * *

A/N:

Oh hey. I'm not dead.

Yes, I've kinda disappeared from the face of this website for the longest time. Sorry doesn't even cut it anymore! It's almost been a year now, hasn't it? Shame on me! I'll make no excuses, it's totally my fault!

Don't worry; I've been writing constantly, trying to muster up the inspiration and, failing that, grabbing it by the balls and forcing it. That might explain why this first chapter seems a bit dry and short. I hope I'll get back into the swing of things soon enough.

I felt my previous rendition of Order in Disorder was confusing and incoherent. I hope to change that in this revised edition. More importantly, I'll be making my best effort to make a Nevada which isn't entirely populated by massive douchebags! Woo hoo!

Thoughts? Should I continue this vein, or just suck it up and finish the original? Leave a review, or PM me. I need feedback to make sure this story is as good as it can possibly be, and I'm interested in hearing yours! Be as brutal or complimenting as you like. The more of an idea I have how to improve, the faster I'll be able to write these chapters!

See you in a few months, I guess.


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